


landslide

by redsideofthemoon



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: 80s and 90s music, Angst, Anxious Eddie Kaspbrak, College AU, Feelings, Flirting, Fluff, Late 90s, M/M, Richie is Richie, Set in LA, Stevie Nicks - Freeform, Unresolved Issues, background ships, identity crisis!, if you think im giving up curly haired richie, newspaper staff eddie, pray for these boys, slowburn, some OCs, swimmer richie, they’re both hot messes, ur wrong!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsideofthemoon/pseuds/redsideofthemoon
Summary: Richie has nothing on except a towel tied loosely around his waist. And he has a really good body. Droplets of water fall to the tile floor from the mop of damp, dark curls on his head. He has approximately one million freckles scattered all over his pale skin like constellations. His mouth is slightly open, eyebrows raised in surprise. Eddie’s eyes flicker from his toned stomach to his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes.I’m gonna pass out, Eddie thinks,I’m gonna pass out and this ridiculously attractive asshole will have to witness it.“Oh. Hi.” Eddie clears his throat and hopes Richie can’t see his blushing cheeks through his slight sunburn. “I’m, um, Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak? I’m supposed to be writing an article about you for the school newspaper?”College AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> I would like to preface this fic with a few warnings.  
> I do not:  
> \- Have any experience working on a newspaper staff.  
> \- Have any experience on a swim team.  
> \- Have any experience living in LA / Going to UCLA  
> This is all fictional and I might alter some things to fit my story (-:
> 
> 2\. This could become a trainwreck lmaodnjnd my writing process is a Certified Mess that involves v little editing and a whole lot of random bursts of inspiration! + I’m v open to the idea of an editor/beta (s) just bc I get tired of looking at my own writing after awhile lol! if some kind soul happens to be interested in that (or if u just wanna yell at me about this fic), my tumblr is Beaiswriting! 
> 
> 3\. This is my first published fic !!! Ever !!! I write p often, but this is my first time being open to criticism online loldsfnjfnj pls be gentle some of u guys write like full fledged fuckin authors on here and it’s S C A R Y 
> 
> 4\. This is all AU. None of the losers grew up together which means they’re all gonna be slightly different versions of themselves. It also will deal w some heavy topics which I will include in the tags as I update<3
> 
> All that being said, sis thrives off of feedback! P L E A S E comment anything you liked/didn’t like/thoughts/feelings idc !!!!! I wanna hear it !!!!! My updating schedule is gonna be a lil sporadic until I find my groove but hearing feedback makes me wanna write !!!
> 
> Ok pls enjoy this slow burn (hopefully lmao we’ll see) totally self indulgent fic w tons of fluff and Stevie Nicks lyrics xoxoxoxo

September in Los Angeles is unbearably hot; this is something Eddie Kaspbrak learns his first week in the goddamned City of Angels —- which, by the way, is an inaccurate and absolutely bullshit moniker. _Only Satan can survive in this weather_ , Eddie muses as he lugs another overflowing box out of the storage locker, bright gold and blue letters advertising **UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES NEWSPAPER STAFF PROPERTY** on the peeling side.

“How far you think these papers date back to, Eddie?” Myra’s shrill voice calls from the back of the unit. She’s sitting crosslegged in front of an old fan she dug out from the piles of junk and plugged in immediately, red-faced and huffing. “God, it’s so hot,” she complains while twisting a strand of dull brown hair around her pointer finger. 

Eddie fights the urge to roll his eyes all the way back in his head as he plops the box down in the trunk of his car. “I don’t know, Myra, and we won’t ever know until we get all of these boxes out of here and into the car,” he says pointedly. He unsticks his sweaty shirt from his torso and winces. _Gross_. 

Another reason why the whole City of Angels gimmick has proven to be bullshit so far —- Myra. She’s been stuck to his side like a leech the entire week, not by Eddie’s choice. They’re the only two freshmen on the newspaper staff, and therefore are forced to do all the errands _Calvin_ doesn’t want to do himself, including transporting decades worth of newspapers from a moldy storage unit to the classroom. He’d quit if he wasn’t so grateful for the opportunity to be part of the staff; some years, no freshmen make it. The Weekly Bruin is award winning and has highly esteemed alumni. It’s just Eddie’s unrelenting bad luck that landed him with Myra. 

“This is all Calvin’s fault.” Calvin is the head of the staff who insists on his students calling him Calvin. Myra whines and heaves herself off the dirty cement. Eddie tries not to think about the amount of germs and bacteria that she’s bound to carry onto his passenger seat. “Making a girl and an asthmatic queer come unload all these boxes.” 

“I’m not a queer!” The words spill out of his mouth all too quickly to not sound guilty. He snaps his head to the side to see Myra staring right at him, an arrogant eyebrow cocked up. Her lips spread into a devious grin that makes the hair on Eddie’s arm stand up. 

“No? Huh. Those little shorts you wear all the time are pretty unconvincing, and I see the way you look at Bill when we’re working on the paper. He’s cute, isn’t he?” Myra’s voice is taunting. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with it, Eddie. We’re in Los Angeles, about half the population is, and it _is_ 1996\. Times are changing.” She bends down and picks up the last of the boxes then saunters over to the trunk where Eddie’s still standing, frozen, hands fidgeting with the hem of his red shorts. He paired them with a plain white shirt and converse this morning and actually liked the way he looked when he left his dorm. 

The sun beats down on Eddie, and it’s hot, so fucking hot. All the blood rises to his cheeks, turning them a deep shade of pink. He isn’t sure if it’s from the heat or anger or embarrassment or a dangerous cocktail of all three. “I know,” he snaps the trunk shut suddenly, causing Myra to jump back. He squints his dark brown eyes up at the slightly taller girl. “But it’s not me. You know nothing about me, so do me a favor and just — stop talking?” 

Myra gasps, jaw coming unhinged. “Eddie! I was kidding!” She punctuates her sentence by stomping her foot to the ground comically. Her puffy cheeks stick out, childish pout on her lips. Eddie decides to ignore her entirely, spinning on his heel and walking away to the driver’s side.

“It wasn’t funny!” Eddie shoots back over his shoulder. “Put that box in the back seat and hurry. It’s too hot for this,” he grouses as he slides into his seat and puts the key in ignition. He flicks the air to its highest setting, despite his ancient car shuddering in protest, then settles back in his seat. 

Myra slams the backdoor with enough force that Eddie’s concerned it might actually make the door fall off. He bought this car — an ugly light blue Honda CR-X from the early 80s that’s almost as old as he is— three days ago with the little money he had saved from odd jobs in Derry. It’s got stained carpeted seats that still carry the vague stench of weed despite Eddie’s multiple attempts of getting it out and faulty air that only works half the time. The only upside is the extensive collection of Fleetwood Mac cassettes the previous owner left in the glovebox.

It’s ugly, but it’s the first thing that’s truly been his. 

The brief drive back to campus is mostly silent, save for Myra attempting to chime in with a snide comment or half-assed apology. Eddie turns Stevie Nicks up every time she tries and only addresses her when he parks in front of the library: “Calvin said he’d get some football players to unload the boxes tomorrow. Can you get out of my car now?” 

Myra purses her lips together defiantly, face pinched up. Eddie woud laugh at how ridiculous she looks if he wasn’t so pissed off. “You’re an asshole,” she says finally. 

“Thanks,” Eddie responds flatly. He leans across the console to open the door for her. “Bye. I’ll see you in a minute.” 

Myra storms out his car, and Eddie knows he’ll have to put up with her comments again in a few minutes, but he relishes the fleeting silence. He watches her disappear into the building then lets his head thump back against the seat and sighs heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Eddie is exhausted. College has totally fucked up his sleeping patterns. He’s usually in bed asleep by 10, but his lack of free time during the day has resulted in late night study sessions. Newspaper has absorbed most of his time, despite the fact that the most he’s done is edit other people’s writing. 

Lack of sleep and Myra’s pestering set him off earlier. Eddie sucks in his bottom lip — an annoying habit that’s left him with raw lips and a tube of cherry flavored Carmex in his pocket at all times. It isn’t the first time he’s been accused of being a queer, and it probably won’t be the last. Kids in Derry couldn’t get enough of the frail, sickly boy who wore short-shorts and stumbled over his words when talking to girls. Eddie never had a crush on any of them, but the way they scrutinized him through mascara coated lashes at school, pursing their glossy lips at just the sight of poor little Eddie Kaspbrak, was enough to make him nervous around them. He brought his feelings, or lack thereof, up to his mother one day when he was on the brink of thirteen and confused, and she frowned. “You’re just a late bloomer, baby,” she said while smoothing out his collared shirt. “That’s all.” 

And Eddie believed her. He believed her until he was fifteen, and the thought of kissing a girl still made him feel sick. Then, he was just a germaphobe. 

Eddie’s just a germaphobe. 

His mother has also been ignoring calls. Not that he really minds. Conversations with her are headache inducing and have the same outcome as talking to a brick wall, especially since Eddie decided to go across the country for college. She would have much preferred him attending one of Derry’s three community colleges and staying put. She tried just about everything to get Eddie to stay, but no matter how much she cried and screamed, Eddie wouldn’t budge. He was leaving Derry, once and for all. 

He hopped on his very first flight and left that too small town just over a week ago, but it feels like it’s been a month. Among how to weave his way through traffic and somewhat work a computer, Eddie’s learned something else: Living alone is hard. Living alone when you’re an anxious, just barely eighteen-year-old in a city miles away from everything you’ve ever known is even harder. On days like today, he can’t help but think that maybe his mother was right. Maybe he isn’t fit to live in a big city all by himself, or be a journalist. _You’re too fragile_ , she would say, _too delicate_.

_( Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?  
Can I handle the seasons of my life? ) _

Thunder booms in the distance and drags Eddie out of his angst ridden state. He glances out his window to see dark clouds forming in the distance. It’s the first time he’s seen any sign of rain since he left Derry. “Perfect,” he grumbles under his breath. 

Eddie takes his keys out the ignition and snags his striped backpack from the backseat. He’s finished with classes for the day, but he has to work on the paper for two hours, running off copies for egotistical upperclassmen and correcting spelling errors. He reluctantly makes his way inside, dragging his feet down the long corridor. The newspaper room is upstairs, situated right above the library in a loft style. Despite the boring work, it’s Eddie’s favorite place on campus; he finds solace in the sound of computer keys clacking and the smell of freshly printed copies. 

“Eddie!” Calvin greets him as soon as he’s up the stairs. Imagine every surfer, stoner, Socal local stereotype: that’s Calvin. He has dark blonde hair that touches the top of his shoulders but is pulled back in a ponytail today. Despite his polarizing looks, he’s surprisingly good at his profession. “Hey buddy.” He calls Eddie buddy a lot. “I have a proposition for you.” 

Eddie blinks at the older man expectantly as he drops his bag off in his usual seat. The newspaper room is arranged with long tables lining each side, heavy computers sitting on top of them and rolling chairs in front of them. About half the staff fill the seats, others in afternoon classes. Tucked away in the corner of the room, Eddie spots Bill. The sophomore nods at Eddie with a small smile and waves. Eddie is about to smile back, but Myra’s comment from earlier echoes in his head, and he ducks his head down.

Calvin’s fingers tap at the laminated surface of the dark wood table. He’s fiddling with his shark tooth necklace with his other hand and smiling wide, blindingly white teeth on full display. “How would you feel about taking on the front page story for next week’s issue?” 

The question hits Eddie like a ton of bricks. “What?” he manages to squeak out. The front page story is typically reserved for juniors and seniors. Freshmen have to fight tooth and nail to even land an opinion piece on the very, very, very last page. 

“I was looking over your portfolio,” Calvin says. Greta Bowie snickers three seats down from Eddie which incites muffled laughter from some of the other upperclassmen. Eddie furrows his brows. “You basically ran your high school’s paper. And it was good! I think you can handle it, don’t you?” 

The Derry High Beat was Eddie’s baby for all four years of high school. It was a monthly paper, but he spent long hours working on it without the tech UCLA offers. The staff consisted of a bunch of people looking for an extracurricular to put on their college applications and himself. Eddie’s name was on each issue at least seven or eight times. He wrote about everything, from the movies playing in the rundown-bar-turned-rundown-theater on Main Street to the star football player’s broken leg that kept him out for a season. The newspaper was his saving grace. As long as Eddie had a camera around his neck ready to take pictures of people with their friends for the paper, he was spared. 

Eddie feels like there’s a joke he isn’t in on. “Of course,” he responds quickly. “The upperclassmen won’t be upset?” he asks, still slightly uneasy. 

“You have our blessing,” Greta cuts in. She’s obnoxiously smacking on bubblegum and threading her bottle blonde hair through her fingers. Eddie heard a rumor that she bleaches it monthly. Her comment sends Viv and Grace, her two mindless followers, into a fit of giggles. Eddie bites his bottom lip. It feels like he’s in high school again. 

Calvin smiles. He claps Eddie on the shoulder with a heavy hand and says, “See? So you’re in?” Eddie wonders for a second how a man with a teaching degree and a published book could possibly be so clueless. 

Eddie knows he must be signing himself up for something terrible, but it’s an opportunity, and he can’t let it go to waste. “Absolutely.” He paints on a shadow of a smile. “Thank you, really. This means a lot to me. What’s the story?” 

“Richie Tozier —- you know him? Of course you do. It’s simple. Just an ole’ run-of-the-mill biography. His family, how he got into swimming, why he chose UCLA, how he feels about being nationally ranked. Humanize him. Make him sound like a regular student.” 

Eddie’s palms grow clammy from the mention of swimming. It’s another irrational fear that stems from his mother’s overbearing nature. She never taught him how to swim, said his lungs weren’t strong enough to handle it. Eddie’s never even step foot in a large body of water to test that theory. But it’s not like Calvin is asking him to dive in and swim with Richie. _What’s he going to do? Push you in?_

Greta snorts dryly and rolls her eyes. Eddie isn’t violent, but he kind of wants to punch her in the face. “Come _on_ , Calvin, at least give him a warning,” Viv pipes up, always the humanist of the group. 

“Warning?” Eddie echoes timidly. 

Greta sighs loudly. She pushes her chair out from under the table and leans in so close that Eddie can smell her vanilla scented perfume. “Richie Tozier is a self-absorbed trashmouth who never shuts up and only gives bullshit answers.” She pops a bubble. “Good luck with your interview. You’ll need it.” 

“He’s a good kid,” is all Calvin supplies. He says it like he’s trying to convince himself it’s true. “All you have to do is ask him a few questions and take some pictures. I’ve already set up a time and date for you meet up with him.” 

“When is that?” Eddie asks. 

“Tomorrow morning!”

* * *

The crooning voice of Stevie Nicks brings Eddie little comfort the next morning.

Swim practice is held at the YMCA. It’s a relatively short drive even with the added LA traffic. Calvin messily scribbled down shorthand directions on a pink sticky note. There’s an added stick Calvin in the corner, long hair and scruffy beard included, with a speech bubble coming from the mouth declaring “You got this!” confidently. Eddie squints at the smiling face as he pulls into the parking lot, sticky note stuck securely onto his dashboard. The parking lot is nearly empty. Eddie thrums his fingers to the beat of the music against the steering wheel as he swings into a parking space close to the entrance.

It’s stupid early. The sun is just barely out, the morning sky an amalgamation of deep yellow and orange hues. Eddie spent most of last night worrying over this goddamned interview and has dark purple rings under his eyes to prove it. He takes one glance at himself in the rearview mirror and grimaces at the sight. The California sun has brought his freckles out and reddened his nose and cheeks. His hair is a mess, too. He didn’t bother to try and tame it before he left, and the morning air is damp, resulting in the ends of his chestnut brown hair curling up. 

Eddie has to pry himself away from his air conditioned car. He wants nothing more than to hop back in and drive away, go back to his stuffy dorm and sleep for two more hours. He says a silent prayer that this Richie guy is less of an asshole than Viv and the entire staff made him out to be. He grabs his Nikon and notebook from the backseat. 

Dread pools in Eddie’s stomach as he nears the entrance. He pauses at the door and sucks in a deep breath. Rationally speaking, Eddie knows he shouldn’t be this anxious about a simple interview, but his palms won’t stop sweating, and his heart is racing. He’s bad at talking to people his age, _fuck_ , he’s bad at talking to people in general. How is he supposed to be a journalist if he can’t do an obviously important part of the job description? 

The YMCA smells of disinfectant spray and chlorine. Eddie approaches a map hanging up on the wall and locates the swimming lanes. 

It doesn’t take him long to fumble his way to the pools. The lanes are long and narrow, spanning from one end of the large room to the other. He’s jittery from the nerves, the close proximity to water and possibly the iced coffee he guzzled down on the way here. Eddie scans the area for Richie but only spots an elderly swimming class in the far left lane. He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and winces at how sensitive it is. He really needs to stop doing that. 

“I’m assuming you’re looking for Richie?” 

Eddie jumps. “Shit!” he exclaims. Eddie turns around to see a lanky boy, only wearing tight swim trunks, around his age staring back at him. He’s dripping wet with a white towel around his neck. He has pointed features and serious eyes that seem to be judging Eddie. His gaze dances between Eddie’s camera bag strapped around his neck to the notebook Eddie’s clutching tightly in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie apologizes, flustered. He reaches an arm up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I am. You know him?” Eddie mentally groans at the stupidity of his question. _Obviously, you idiot._

The stranger verifies with a short nod and tacks on a dry snort. “Sadly. You’re the unfortunate soul they chose to send this time?” Beneath his snarky comment, Eddie senses a hint of affection. 

All Eddie can do is nod. 

“He finished up a few minutes ago. I think he’s in the locker room now.” The stranger gestures toward the other end of the room where the brick wall opens up into a hallway.

Eddie offers him a tiny smile. “Thanks.” 

He recognizes the faint sound of static laced music playing from an old radio as he approaches the locker room. It’s a familiar song that Eddie can’t quite place. He pauses at the opening of the hallway when he hears a raspy voice join in with the singing. “Hello?” he calls out. Eddie takes a few more cautious steps forward. 

The radio flicks off. Eddie waits in silence for a few seconds, heart beating fast in his chest. The sound of bare feet slapping against tile signals someone coming then who he assumes to be Richie rounds the corner and —

Oh.

_Oh._

Richie has nothing on except a towel tied loosely around his waist. And he has a really good body. Droplets of water fall to the tile floor from the mop of damp, dark curls on his head. He has approximately one million freckles scattered all over his pale skin like constellations. His mouth is slightly open, eyebrows raised in surprise. Eddie’s eyes flicker from his toned stomach to his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. _I’m gonna pass out_ , Eddie thinks, _I’m gonna pass out and this ridiculously attractive asshole will have to witness it._

“Oh. Hi.” Eddie clears his throat and hopes Richie can’t see his blushing cheeks through his slight sunburn. “I’m, um, Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak? I’m supposed to be writing an article about you for the school newspaper?” 

“An article?” Richie walks right past Eddie. Eddie hears him shuffling through the lockers and doesn’t dare turn around out of fear of Richie dropping that towel.

“Yes,” Eddie confirms. He fiddles with the camera strap around his neck. “I thought— I thought you knew? I’ll be quick; it’sjustafewquestions.” The words spill out his mouth in a jumbled mess. 

The telltale sound of a towel dropping nearly sends Eddie into cardiac arrest. “Oh no, I knew you were coming,” Richie says casually, as if a random stranger isn’t in the room while he’s 100% fully fucking naked. “Just figured I’d get a whole spread this time is all. You know, I’m kind of a big deal around here, cutie. I have a national title to prove it. You should come back to my place after this, I’ll show you it.” 

_What the fuck?_

Eddie blanches. He has to formulate some sort of appropriate response in the next few seconds for it to not be weird and awkward, but Richie just fucking called him cute and proved everything Greta said about him correct all in the same breath. It’s a lot to process. The locker shuts abruptly, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his own skin. He hears Richie chuckle smugly from behind him. The sound makes Eddie clench his fists until his trimmed nails leave crescent moon marks indented in his palms. 

“You know, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I was hoping you’d be less of an asshole than everyone made you out to be.” Eddie folds his arms, notebook pressed flush against his chest. He’s sure he looks childish right now, scowling and red in the face. “Can you put some clothes on?” 

“Oof. One step ahead of you, cutie.” There’s footsteps approaching and then Richie is standing in front of him, clad in gray sweatpants and a tight UCLA swim shirt. He’s also put on bulky glasses that serve in magnifying his eyes to the size of saucers and making him look a whole lot less intimidating. “And that’s where you thought wrong, Eddie Kaspbrak. I’m even more of an asshole than everyone makes me out to be.” Richie steps toward Eddie, a challenging smirk playing on his lips. 

Richie is infuriatingly tall; Eddie has to crane his neck back to properly glare at the guy. “Eddie. Just Eddie,” Eddie corrects with a displeased huff. 

Richie’s face spits into a boyish grin. His teeth are slightly crooked with a hardly noticeable gap between the front two. “We’re already on a first name basis? Score one for the hometeam.” Richie turns around on his heel before kneeling down and rummaging through his gym bag. He pulls out a plastic container, opens it, then pops a tic-tac. 

The juxtaposition between mysterious smooth-talking, shirtless Richie of a few seconds ago to this is jarring. Eddie is baffled. “What? Why the fuck would you call me by my first and last name?”

“I don’t know, Eds — Eddie Spaghetti? We have a lot of good options here; what do you prefer?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose in distaste. “None of the above.” Richie’s dragging a raggedy pair of red Adidas sneakers out of his bag now. They’re so big they look like clown shoes. He nearly trips over his own feet putting them on, using one of the wooden benches to balance himself. “Do you ever stop moving?” Eddie asks, genuinely confused. 

“Is that your first question for your hard hitting exposé on Richie Tozier? Write this down, Eds—” Richie is keeling over, clutching his knees, and panting like he just ran a marathon and isn’t the school’s most valued athlete. He peers up at Eddie through his wet curls, “—No.” 

Eddie almost laughs, but it dies behind his pursed lips. Instead, he says, “Don’t call me that.” 

There’s a lull of silence. Richie doesn’t seem to take note of the awkwardness of the situation, obliviously fidgeting with the laces of his shoes and humming the melody of the song that was playing earlier. Eddie wrings his hands together. “The interview?” 

Richie hums and blinks at Eddie stupidly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says with a wave of his hand. “You journalists are all the same,” he’s speaking in awful British accent that causes Eddie to pull a face, “only interested in getting yer answers!” 

Eddie sighs. “Can you not make this difficult? I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t want to do this interview. Either give me some actual answers, or I’ll leave now and write about how your dad was actually a fish, and that’s why you came out this way.”

Richie blinks once, twice, three times at Eddie which makes Eddie smirk back at him. His pink lips part slightly to form a small ‘o’ shape. “ _Yowza_. I think I like your version of my life story better,” Richie says while waggling his eyebrows. “They really sent a spitfire this time around, huh?” Richie stares at him oddly. 

Eddie sighs once again. 

“Okay, fine, I get it. Shut the fuck up, Richie.” Richie holds his hands out flat like he’s speaking to a cornered animal. “I’ll cooperate this time, only because your angry face is so cute it’s painful.” 

Eddie decides to see if ignoring Richie’s dumb comments is an effective tactic. “Great,” he says with feigned enthusiasm. He whips his notebook out and flips open the cover. “I need pictures of you in the water too, but I guess I can come back tomorrow for them or whenev-’’

“Hey! Slow down. My cooperation has some conditions.” 

“That so isn’t how this works!” Eddie protests. He wants to be mad, and he is. Sort of. But Richie is grinning at him like they’re old friends, and he’s annoying, but he’s also kind of funny in an obnoxious way of his own. Eddie holds his notebook up to his face to hide his smile. 

“Humor me!” Richie pleads. His wide hopeful eyes look huge behind the thick frame of his glasses. 

Eddie sighs and adds an eyeroll to spice things up. “You have like,” Eddie looks down at the watch on his wrist, “ten seconds.” 

Richie’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. He clears his throat like he’s preparing to give some big speech. “You like pancakes?” 

Eddie scrunches his nose. _What?_ “What?”

This time it’s Richie who’s sighing. He holds his arms out wide and gestures to their surroundings, looking exasperated. “C’mon Eds, you’re an experienced journalist. This is not the proper setting for you to write your hard-hitting exposé of Richie Tozier.” He drops his arms and pauses to smile sheepishly at Eddie. “I’m also hungry and know a good diner just down the street from here.” 

Warmth creeps up Eddie’s chest and lights his cheeks on fire. Is Richie asking Eddie to get breakfast with him? He’s definitely asking Eddie to get breakfast with him. Eddie knows breakfast means sitting in a table or booth for an extended period of time staring at each other which opens the door for many unbearably awkward silences. Also: Does this mean Richie wants to be friends with him? Or is he just hungry from swimming? Why isn’t he being an asshole to Eddie like he apparently was to the rest of the staff? Why is he calling Eddie cute? Is this all a big scheme to try and pull the rug out from under Eddie and embarrass him? He doesn’t fucking know. 

“Orrrrr we can sit in the bleachers and pretend I never —’’

“No!” 

Richie smiles.

“I could go for some pancakes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait! school started back and has been w i l d lmaoojksjdfn 
> 
> I'm v excited for what i have planned for this fic !! please leave kudos/comments if u enjoyed !! they keep me writing ((: 
> 
> xoxoxo thank u for reading <3
> 
> (side note: changed my tumblr url!! talk to me @redsideof-themoon

Eddie is crammed into the passenger seat of Richie’s rusted red pickup truck less than ten minutes later, hands clutching the edge of the tattered seat with stark white knuckles. He was persuaded into riding with Richie since he doesn’t know where the diner is, but he’s beginning to regret that decision. The truck lurches with every less than smooth turn Richie makes. Two little tree air fresheners dangling from his rearview mirror jump when he makes a particularly sudden stop. Eddie groans from low in his throat, head thumping back against the cushioned seat. 

“Shit. Sorry,” Richie says as he cruises through an intersection. He glances over at Eddie apologetically. It’s the most genuine sentiment Eddie’s heard from him all morning. “Betsy’s an old gal. She’s seen herself some better days,” he adds in annoying country accent that absolutely does _not_ make Eddie smile. 

Richie’s relaxed in his seat, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other occupied with the radio. The windows are down, and his messy chocolate curls are flying everywhere from the late summer wind. They’re almost dry now. He’s grinning from the inside out, hasn’t stopped since Eddie agreed to get breakfast with him. He bobs his head along to the music, an upbeat song with loud guitars and drawn out drum solos that Eddie’s never heard before. 

_( Life is hard_  
_And so am I_  
_You’d better give me something  
So I don’t die ) _

Eddie snorts. “I think you might just be a shit driver.” He has to raise his voice to be heard above the music and rumbling engine.

Richie gasps in mock offense, hand rising to his chest to clutch his nonexistent pearls like a southern belle. “First of all —- rude. I don’t appreciate the attitude or your lack of faith in my driving abilities.” He holds a slender finger up in Eddie’s face. Eddie follows a blue vein that trails all the way down his pale arm. “I only failed my driver’s exam twice.”

Eddie’s face pales. He grimaces. “Was that meant to be comforting?”

“No,” Richie says through a bubble of laughter. He adjusts his glasses. “I wanted to see your scared face. It’s even cuter than I expected it to be, by the way.”

That’s the third time Richie’s called him cute. Not that Eddie’s been counting. Eddie bites his raw lip. It shouldn’t be awkward, really. Guys joke around with each other all the time —- locker room talk or some shit like that. “Cut it out,” Eddie warns and turns his head to look out the window. 

They’re passing a long stretch of beach that was covered in a thin veil of fog when Eddie passed it earlier. Some eager vacationers are stretched out on towels, lined up like sardines, baking in the early morning sun and quadrupling their chances of melanoma. Eddie stretches his hand out to hang limply out the window. The wind rushes between his fingers. Eddie inhales the salty air. Exhales. 

“Cut what out?” Richie asks. He sounds clueless. Eddie whips his head back around to see he looks clueless too. 

“Saying shit like that.” 

“Why would I do that?” Richie is back to using that casual tone —- like the idea of him not calling Eddie _cute_ is too outlandish to even consider. 

“Because,” Eddie sputters out, his face warm from the perpetual blush he seems to keep around Richie. _Because I don’t know why you’re making me the feel this way_ , he wants to say. Instead, he glares at Richie and says quietly, “it’s not funny.” 

The engine shuts off. They’re in the parking lot of the diner now. **QUEENIE’s** , the raised sign situated off the road reads in dull letters. It looks like it’d light up at night, but the sun is high in the sky, and with the windows rolled up, Eddie can feel beads of sweat collect above his lip and along his forehead. Richie’s holding his keys in his hands and staring at Eddie intensely, almost analyzing him. The corners of his mouth are quirked up curiously, and suddenly, Eddie is looking at the Richie from earlier, past the huge coke-bottle glasses and dumb voices and goofy smile. 

“Good thing I’m not joking then, huh?” His voice is low and silken and flirtatious, and it’s enough to make Eddie want to bolt out of Richie’s ugly pickup truck and never speak to him again. 

For a second, the only noise comes from the soft in-and-out of their breathing and the far away whoosh of cars passing. Eddie drops his gaze, embarrassed. He needs Richie to stop talking before he bursts into flames. “Richie.” He wants it to come out as a warning, but his voice is laced with something keen to fear. 

“You’re really good at telling me to shut the fuck up without actually saying the words.” Whatever tension that was once there is gone. It’s like a flip is switched and Richie is back to smiling his gap-toothed grin at Eddie. He swings the door open and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Pancakes?” he asks, holding a hand above his eyes to block out the sun. Richie’s out of the truck now, walking backwards toward the door, hair flying with the wind.

* * *

Eddie watches in disgust as Richie drowns his towering stack of fluffy pancakes in an ungodly concoction of thick maple syrup, whip cream, and melted butter. Eddie really, _really_ wants to go off on a tangent about the high sugar content or the risk of developing diabetes, but he bites his tongue and focuses on cutting his meager two pancakes into even pieces. 

Queenie’s is quaint and quiet. The only other costumers, an elderly couple sipping on mugs of coffee and flipping through the day’s newspaper, sit at the bar in the middle of the restauraunt. Waitresses in pale yellow uniforms stand behind the bar, watching the morning news from the television hanging in the corner of the room with disheartened eyes and vague interest. Richie and Eddie are sat directly beneath the television in a wrinkled, stained booth, next to a dusty jukebox that looks like it hasn’t been used in a decade. 

“When did you start coming here?” Eddie asks as he stabs a piece of pancake with his fork. He has his leather notebook spread open on the table in front of him and an expensive pen Calvin loaned him beside it. He also has a list of questions prepared, ready to fire them off, but it feels too weird and invasive to ask Richie about his childhood or parents right now. _You’re trying to humanize him_ , Eddie criticizes himself, _It’s meant to be personal_. 

Richie raises his eyebrows, seemingly surprised by the question. He swallows then swipes the back of his hand across his mouth before saying: “That your first question? I gotta say, Eddie Spaghetti, I expected something a little more groundbreaking to get the ball rolling.” He points his syrup-coated fork in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie shakes his head. “No. I just —- ’’ _I want to understand you_. “I’m just curious, I guess.” 

Richie shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe two months into freshman year? My truck broke down on the way home from the Y after the year’s first team practice, and I ended up here.” He shovels another bite into his mouth and moans theatrically. There’s a thin sheen of butter and syrup coating his lips that he cleans off with his tongue. “S’good, right?” he asks, voice muffled. 

Eddie cringes. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” he presses. The pancakes _are_ good, but he isn’t going to let Richie have the pleasure of knowing that. 

“Weird,” Richie says like an observation. He cocks his head to the side. “Your mom loves when I talk with my mouth full.”

“What does that even mean?” Eddie blurts out. He falls back in his seat with crossed arms. 

“I don’t know. It made more sense in my head.” 

Eddie can’t stop the laugh building up in his throat from spilling past his lips. “You mean you actually think before you speak?” He’s teasing Richie in an unfamiliar lighthearted tone.

“Only for you, my boy,” Richie fires back in a thick Scottish accent. He winks at the meak waitress who stops by their table and tops off his coffee. He drinks it black, thankfully. Eddie doesn’t think Richie would fare well with even more sugar circulating through his system. 

“Shut up,” Eddie mutters, only halfway meaning it. Growing up, friendship was a foreign concept to Eddie, but the back-and-forth of Richie and his conversations reminds him of those of the characters from the cheesy sitcoms his mother used to watch. “You really are a trashmouth, you know,” he repeats Greta’s words from the day before that ring truer than ever now. 

“It makes me charming,” Richie states matter-of-factly. 

“Who lied and told you that?” Eddie quips back. 

Richie’s pink lips part for a second as he searches for a witty comeback. Realization washes over his face. “Your mom told me that!” he exclaims gleefully, banging his fist on the table with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. 

( He’s charming. ) 

They fumble through some of the basic interview questions until Eddie is satisified with the answers. For someone so cocky, Richie avoids discussing anything other than swim like the plague. The process for each question is the exact same and goes something like this: 

1\. Eddie asks the question. 

2\. Richie deflects with either:  
a.) answering with another question  
b.) giving Eddie an obviously bullshit answer  
c.) completely changing the subject 

3\. Eddie sighs and/or glares then repeats the question. 

4\. Richie caves.

After twenty minutes, Eddie knows Richie was born in Northern California, right outside of San Francisco in the suburbs. His parents are both attornies who were deadset on Richie becoming one, too. They eventually complied when Richie threatened to not even go to college and open up his own food truck/RV on Venice Beach.

Eddie coughs around the too-big-bite currently residing in his mouth. “A food truck?” he says, except it sounds more like, “Uh foo’ ruck?” 

Richie smiles _at_ Eddie. 

“What?” Eddie asks and wipes the corner of his mouth self-consciously.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” 

He has two older sisters who he describes as “pretentious but alright sometimes.” He’s a junior and a business major, because his dad said it’d be easy to land a job with a business degree, and he sucks at making big decisions for himself. The quarter-sized, shallow circular scar above his left eyebrow is the result of eight-year-old Richie _fucking around too close to the deep-fryer while mom was making churros_. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Richie says defensively. “I know even hotshot journalist Eddie Kaspbrak did dumb shit as a kid.”

Eddie shakes his head stubbornly with a scoff. “I was a good kid. I carried around a first aid kit in my fanny pack,” he protests. When he thinks of his childhood, close encounters with deep-fryers are the farthest thing in his mind. Reruns of talk TV. Copious amounts of bug spray. Sugar free popsicles. 

Richie coughs. He goes bug-eyed. “Excuse me, in your _what_?”

“My _fanny-pack_ ,” Eddie repeats slowly, more drawn-out. “It was convenient for, like, storing….things,” he trails off bashfully, slowly dropping his gaze to focus on his fork scraping against his plate. It sounds kind of ridiculous out loud, and the way Richie is staring at him with unabashed amusement written all over his face makes the tips of his ears go bright red. 

“Uh-huh,” Richie appeases. The sun is shining through the glass window, paling half of his face. Drenched in sunlight, Eddie can make out golden specks in his eyes. He leans in. “Like your first-aid kit?” he asks, mockingly serious.

The corners of Eddie’s mouth quirk up without his consent. It’s weird —- interacting with Richie. He’s teasing Eddie, but not the way Henry Bowers did back in Derry or the way Greta and Viv and Grace do now. 

“Yes, you jerk,” he tacks on the insult for good measure. “Like my first aid kit.” 

His parents enrolled him in swim when he was five because he needed a way to burn off excess energy that wouldn’t drive his entire family insane. 

“I think their goal was finding an alternative to medicating me.” The seriousness of the sudden revelation takes Eddie off guard. Richie picks at the nail of his thumb. “Wasn’t their smartest move. Putting me in swim gave me something _else_ to talk about.”

“Our parents had very different parenting strategies,” Eddie says vaguely. “My mom gave me pills for just about everything.” The words come before he can convince himself to stop. He freezes once he realizes what he was about to reveal to Richie, a total fucking stranger. It’s far too close of a call, and it makes Eddie want to retreat, call everything off, bolt out the door, write some half-assed article and never speak to Richie Tozier again. 

Richie hums his acknowledgment, encouraging Eddie to continue. His inky eyes are serious behind the rim of his mug. Eddie swallows hard. “You, uh,” Eddie begins, glancing down at the notes he wrote for himself, “won some competition over the summer?” 

The abrupt subject change doesn’t phase Richie. He barks out a harsh laugh, head tipping back to expose the long column of his neck. “Basically,” he says, “I placed first at the NCAA national championship in two different categories. Helped the team bring home the title. It was a pretty big deal, televised and shit. The school is milking it for all it’s worth.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinks, surprised. He knew Richie was good, but he didn’t think he was _that_ good. “That’s — cool? Good job.” he says blandly. He doesn’t know much about swim terminology, anything actually, but it sounds like a big deal. 

Richie is about to spout off another one of his comments, but the bell hanging above the door chimes, and he looks past Eddie with a dopey grin on his face. Eddie cranes his neck around the corner of the booth to see another waitress stumbling in, obviously in a rush. She’s tying her apron around her neck as she makes her way around the bar. She pulls her shoulder-length wavy red hair out from under the apron while spouting off apologies to the other workers.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Eddie prods. The waitress is undeniably pretty. Eddie could see them together. 

“Bev? No. Gross,” Richie says quickly. “I mean — she’s not gross,” he corrects himself, holding his hands out. “The concept of us dating is. Kinda would be beating a dead horse. We hooked up freshman year once, but it was super fucking weird, so now we just live together.” 

Another thing Eddie doesn’t know much about — relationships. Whatever Richie just described, however, does not sound like any platonic friendship he’s seen in _Friends_. He frowns, confused. 

“Not like live together as a couple. I live with her boyfriend too. Ben. He could abso-fucking-lutely beat my ass.”

Oh. 

“So you’re like the third wheel they can’t get rid of?” Eddie teases. He could see that. Richie Tozier, perpetual third wheel. 

“Basically a spare tire at this point,” Richie agrees sadly. He sighs woefully and props his chin in his hand. 

The sound of glass shattering is piercing even over the arguing news reporters on the television. The low hum of chatter comes to an abrupt stop. Eddie jerks his head to the side to see Bev crouched on the ground, abandoned serving platter on the ground next to her. The shattered glass looks to have once been a pitcher, judging by the iced water spilled all over the floor that’s sneaking into the grout lines of the tile floor. 

“Really, Marsh? Again?” Another waitress, an older woman with smoker lines and deep-set eyes, sighs as she approaches the scene. “What is that? The third time this week?” She has a broom and dustpan in hand that she drops beside Bev. She heaves another forlorn sigh and makes her way to the door. Eddie thinks he hears her grumble something about going out for a smoke. 

Richie rushes out of his seat as soon as she’s past the door. He whistles lowly before crouching down next to her. “Brenda seems like she’s in a lovely mood,” Richie says casually as he begins to pick up bits of jagged shards of glass with his _bare_ fucking hands. 

Bev snorts. “Isn’t she always?” 

Eddie feels out of place watching the interaction. Does he get up to help? Or would that be weird? He doesn’t even know Bev; she might think he’s just some annoying, overbearing stranger. Sitting in the booth, wringing his hands together awkwardly, isn’t much of a better option, though, so he stands up. 

Bev takes notice of him almost immediately. Her eyes look Eddie up and down before she stands up, brushing her spare hand off against her apron. She unsticks a cherry red curl from her glossy lips and tucks it behind her ear. “Who’s this, Rich?” Bev asks a little breathlessly, hand outstretched for Eddie to take, her eyes warm and kind and welcoming. He takes her dainty hand in his, eyes dancing from the assortment of multi-colored rings on her fingers to the chipped red nail polish on her nails. Eddie thinks he likes her already. 

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” Eddie says at the same time Richie excitedly interjects with, “Eddie Spaghetti!” 

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Richie claps Bev on the shoulder, beaming proudly. Eddie narrows his eyes at the taller boy. _Call me cute one more time, and you’re gonna get it, asshole_ is the message he hopes he is getting across. The way Richie unknowingly grins back at him isn’t very promising, however. “Cute, cute, cute,” Richie sing-songs. Eddie scowls. _Fuck you._

“I’m writing an article about Richie for the newspaper,” Eddie explains weakly, hoping that it is enough of an explanation. 

“I’m so sorry,” Bev says apologetically. She twists around to look at Richie, confusion evident on her face. “You brought him here? Where’s Stan?”

Richie shrugs. “He’s different from the other ones,” he says simply, annoyingly fucking vague. He walks over to the bar to dispose of the glass shards in the dustpan. “Stan the Man is still at the Y. I figured he could use the extra practice.” 

Bev still looks weirded out by the situation, glancing between Eddie and Richie with an unreadable expression on her face. Eddie gets it. She doesn’t voice her confusion, instead smiling kindly at Eddie and saying, “Nice to meet you, Eddie.” She leans in and holds her hand up to cover her mouth from Richie’s view. “I’m sorry you’ve been forced to deal with him,” she says in a loud stage whisper. 

Richie pouts. “I heard that!” 

“It’s fine,” Eddie responds. _It really, really is._

* * *

Eddie isn’t a kid anymore. 

Not really, not _legally_. He’s eighteen. He can join the military, buy cigarettes, live by himself. He has to be responsible, especially now that his mother isn’t around to hover over him, and he thinks he’s doing a pretty damn good job of taking care of himself so far. He’s only eaten instant ramen twice the week, and he’s doing well in all of his classes. 

He isn’t a kid anymore. 

But hiding away in his dorm room on the first Saturday night of the school year while all of his classmates are out having fun is making him feel like one. 

There’s some big fraternity party going on that apparently _everyone_ is going to. Even Myra said she was going. He could go, if he wanted to. Frat parties don’t seem like a RSVP type of event. 

Here are some things you should know about Eddie Kaspbrak: he despises loud places, he can’t stand the scent of alcohol and the thought of drinking it terrifies him, he blows at socializing with other people his age, and he’s an overall nervous wreck of a human being. 

With all that being said, college parties are not Eddie Kaspbrak friendly, which is why he’s holed up in his dorm on the first Saturday night of the school year, writing an essay for his English class and attempting to filter through the unorganized mess of Richie’s interview. 

Richie. He’s probably at the party right now, already passed out on the couch or playing some ridiculous drinking game. Or maybe he’s too much of an outcast for that. Maybe he’s passing around a bottle of vodka with Stan and Bev. Eddie isn’t quite sure where to peg Richie. Either way, he’s definitely not stuck in his dorm room. Eddie flops back on his bed. 

The blanket he bought at Walmart for his tiny twin bed is made of a scratchy fleece material that rubs harshly against his legs. It was the least costly one he could find. His mother argued with him up-and-down about keeping the quilt blanket on his bed back at home back in Derry, so much that Eddie eventually gave up. It was just another pointless argument, one last ditch effort at keeping Eddie in that town. 

Tossing the blanket aside, Eddie stands up from the stiff matress. He needs fresh air. He steps over his roommate’s strewn dirty laundry with an unimpressed huff to get to the lone window carved into the opposite wall. Sam, Eddie thinks his name is. They’ve only been in their room together a handful of times except for when they’re sleeping. He usually comes in far later than Eddie, high off his ass and sometimes drunk. 

Cracking the window open, he’s met with the sound of excited laughter and screaming. There’s a group of obviously drunk students walking past his dorm, arms wrapped around each other as they make their way back to their dorms. Their voices echo through the darkness, loud enough Eddie’s concerned some nosy RA is going to come running out of nowhere. They look happy. 

One more thing you should know about Eddie Kaspbrak: he desperately fears being alone.

* * *

Richie Tozier proves to be a problem even when he isn’t around to pester Eddie. 

It’s the day after the interview, and it’s almost midnight. Eddie is slumped in his chair in the staff room, bleary-eyed and running on iced coffee and sheer will. Everyone else left hours ago, including Calvin, who dropped the keys to the room on Eddie’s desk with a clap on his shoulder and an apologetic smile. Eddie pushes his chair out from underneath the table and runs his hands over his face. He’s been staring at his computer screen for so long all of the words are beginning to blend into one big blurry blob. 

Eddie has an ample amount of information to write a decent article, but this is the first thing he’s ever written for the Bruin, and it’s on the front page. It needs to be perfect if he wants a fighting chance of getting an opportunity like this again. He’s typed and erased and started over so many times he’s lost count. The final draft isn’t due for another three days. Eddie still has to see Richie to get the pictures, but his brain won’t shut off until he’s finished it. He dragged himself out of bed and tiptoed around Sam to write this stupid article and ease his anxiety, but now he’s even more anxious and frustrated and _exhausted_.

“E-Eddie?” 

The overhead light flickers on. Eddie recognizes Bill Denbrough’s signature stutter immediately. 

Eddie turns around to see Bill lingering in the doorway. He’s dressed in an oversized hoodie and plaid pajama pants, hair tossled like he just rolled out of bed moments ago. 

“Hey, Bill,” Eddie greets in a muted voice. “What are you doing here?” 

Bill points to the opposite corner of the room. He runs his fingers through his light brown hair. “Left my backpack.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you w-working on your article? How’d the interview w-with Richie go?” He approaches Eddie slowly, hands in his pockets. 

"Yeah," Eddie says through a sigh, trying to conceal how tired he is. "It was...alright."

“Ruh-Richie isn’t so bad once you get to know him. He’s talented. Greta and the other girls just h-have some sort of vendetta against him.” Bill cracks a small grin at Eddie. He looks almost as tired as Eddie, which is a comforting thought. Maybe Bill, the most likeable and composed person Eddie knows, is struggling too. “We’re friends, s-sort of. My roommate’s dating someone he suh-swims with, so he’s at my apartment sometimes.” 

“Stan?” Eddie asks, a shot in the dark. Stan didn’t seem too fond of Richie during their brief conversation, but Richie made it seem like they were best friends; however, Richie also seems like the kind of person to never meet a stranger. 

“Yeah, that’s him,” Bill confirms.

Bill moves closer until he’s standing over Eddie’s shoulder. He peers down at the computer screen and Eddie’s open notebook laying beside it. “I’m surprised y-you got this much out of him. He usually g-gives everyone a hard time.” 

“It wasn’t exactly easy,” Eddie admits sheepishly. “He forced me to get breakfast with him.” He flips through the multiple pages of writing. Eddie wrote down everything he could, making little notes to himself along the way.

Bill laughs. “You g-got breakfast with him?”

“Um. Yeah,” Eddie responds with pink cheecks. He ducks his head down to avoid the incredulous look Eddie he knows Bill is giving him. “I didn’t have time to take any pictures, so we have to meet again for those, and I still need a few more details to tie the article together.” He pauses once he reaches the last page. Scribbled in the bottom left corner are ten digits with a note in sloppy handwriting written next to them. 

_Eds/ Eddie Spaghetti/ Eddie Kaspbrak/ Cutie,_

_Here is my phone number. Just in case ~~you ever need someone to annoy you~~ have any more questions \- Richie_

Bill’s fingers graze over the message. “So why don’t you call him?”


End file.
